


Your Way of Telling

by itsukoii



Category: the GazettE
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artist!Ruki, Life Model!Reita, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 05:52:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17761028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsukoii/pseuds/itsukoii
Summary: University student Takanori excels in his classes - until a new life-drawing model arrives, and the student finds himself infatuated with the new piece of eye-candy.





	Your Way of Telling

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this for a class last semester and am finally deciding to post it... praying the teacher doesn't backtrack and find my ao3 uh he'd be in for a surprise
> 
> tbh, this isn't the best fic i've written and i'm not too proud of it but i still felt like it was worth sharing! enjoy.

“I hope the model’s hot.”

A quiet snort was given in reply. “Of course you do—you never get any of your assignments done on time, anyways.” An attractive model would be nothing but a distraction, surely; the students were here to learn, not to fawn over what they were supposed to capture in their work.

“Don’t be so stuck-up, Taka,” the other student teased, as he always did—truthfully, Takanori wanted nothing more than to smack his raven-haired friend upside the head more than a few times a day as payback for his constantly running mouth, often offering useless speak which went through one’s ear and out the other. “You’d love a hot model just as we all would.”

“Not everyone is a pervert like you, Yuu.”

“You’re not? _Please._ We’ve been friends for long enough for me to have seen your search history…”

“Shut up!” Takanori sneered back, although the corner of his red-lathered lips couldn’t help but to lift into a smirk. The short blond rolled his eyes but would not admit defeat aloud—Yuu may have had a point, but that didn’t derail the students’ purpose in being where they currently were; in a university classroom fueled by creativity and talent, the desire to speak through visuals and create beauty at the extended hand of a paintbrush—or whatever fine arts students did, as their experiences and drives were so often unique to the individual.

Here, however—gathered in a spread circle with easels in front of them and charcoal and willow in hand—the students were here for one united thing: the human form and how to replicate it in two-dimensional art. Neither best friend Takanori nor Yuu were new to this as second-year students advancing well into the semester, but it was recently revealed that the class would be gaining a new model today. The sex they did not know; the age they did not know. The form—every curve and junction—would be a surprise to all; but if Takanori had to guess, the new model would be male. The class had had countless female models as of thus far with even fewer male models—and so, if he were correct in his guess, both he and Yuu would more than likely have difficulty focusing on the task at hand.

_Especially_ if the male model was attractive in physique and appearance, as Yuu had so dutifully hoped aloud. Because, while as artists, the two had to ignore all biases and circle in on nothing but the naked human form at hand, they were human as well, with unruly emotions, feelings, and personalities—they recognized an attractive model when they saw one.

They relished in it, too; a little eye-candy during work was always appreciated.

Using the thin tip of the willow to doodle and practice line weight in the corner of his sheet, Takanori hummed softly to himself as the few students in the classroom talked amongst themselves. There weren’t many—there never were in the fine arts, and the short blond found it to be a benefit. At last, they’d outgrown childish, high school drama, cliques and divisions; here, the students carried unspoken truce agreements through each and every day, knowing well enough they were in no position to compete or to be harmful. It was easy to make friends, however Takanori chose not to—he only needed Yuu’s company, who he’d been close with since high school, and the occasional out-of-school friend. Anything more would be exhausting; Takanori needed to focus on himself, his designs, and his future. Nothing else mattered.

Nothing of emotional value, anyway—he allowed himself to embark on some rather shallow endeavors every so often, as the primal desires could not help but strike—but even those were nothing more than a fleeting night. Yuu was the same and shared the same views; they worked closely together on projects and had similar future plans but did not do much outside of their miniscule social circle. There just wasn’t time nor energy in their current place in life. Yet this wasn’t to say Takanori hadn’t considered a relationship or thought about commitment at all—he had. It just wasn’t the time.

The rough voice of their professor interrupted the mindless student banter and soft exchanges as the artists awaited instructions, the model, and for class to start. “Everyone, this is Mr. Suzuki.” The man gestured to the younger one standing beside him. “He was kind enough to volunteer to be our life model today. Suzuki, please stand in the middle, on the platform.”

“Wait…” Yuu whispered, leaning over to whisper his suspicions into Takanori’s ear. “Suzuki. Isn’t that your hot neighbour?”

“My hot…?”

_Suzuki Akira!_ Takanori would recognize that messy bird’s nest of blond hair from a mile away. Its tone was yellowed, unlike the artist’s own which was dyed a more platinum—Takanori took great pride in his appearance, but Suzuki’s look was far rougher and done with little care. His hair looked like it had been done in an act of rebellion in high school with nothing more than drug store-bought bleach and an inexperienced friend to help—never visiting a proper salon to get it dyed, merely maintaining that same rebellious process into university. Takanori shuddered at the thought; he prized his bi-monthly salon visits.

Worst of all, however, was that Suzuki was _attractive._ As terrible as his style may be—thrifty, tattered jeans and clunky chains, plain shirts and a rough exterior that of a conventional “bad boy”—the man was _fine._ Takanori had passed the apartment complex’s gym many times to catch a glimpse of Suzuki in the midst of working out, muscles large and veins swelling; the short blond couldn’t help but to lick his lips at the immediate vision. He’d be damned if he didn’t admit to his attraction—Yuu could agree. The raven-haired student lifted up his brow in amusement after sensing Takanori’s change in demeanor, the little blond’s eyes shamelessly fixated on Suzuki as the man stepped up onto the platform. Suzuki did so with an aura of unease, another thing that intrigued Takanori as it so easily contrasted his outwardly confident one; while his height may be stunted, and his voice not so preciously wasted on many people, the short blond had taken the label of “diva” long ago, given to him by nearly every person he’d come in contact with. It was true, he was confident—and he’d show it, too. He expressed himself in eccentric fashion, makeup, and expertly-styled, platinum blond hair; Yuu was a self-appointed hairstylist on the side, coming to his friend’s rescue more than once in dire situations. Takanori walked with one leg in front of the other, shoulders back and a hand on his hip; turning heads was certainly a talent he possessed. At the apartment complex, he’d turned Suzuki’s head more than once; they’d spoken on occasion of nothing of importance as Takanori had seized the opportunity to steal shameless glances at Suzuki’s developed form close-up—Suzuki would shift uncomfortably once he’d realized he’d become the shorter blond’s eye-candy at close range, clearly not used to the direct attention. It always intrigued Takanori more.

“Who’s the pervert now, hmm?” Yuu interrupted his dazed friend’s pleasant fantasies with a jab to the ribs, a shameless smirk plastered on his bright face.

“Can you blame me?” Takanori whispered viciously in return, keeping his voice low as the rustling of papers and utensils masked his voice enough so only Yuu could hear. “I’ve seen him in the gym at our building—he’s got the body of a _god._ ” To think Takanori would be seeing every part of that godlike body today sent a pleasant shiver down his spine. Through half-lidded eyes and mascara-coated lashes, the little blond intently studied Suzuki’s every move as he made himself comfortable standing on the platform, rubbing his clothed bicep sheepishly as he awaited further instructions. The man hadn’t sent a single glance Takanori’s way—Takanori huffed in unfair frustration, because why should he care? He barely _knew_ Suzuki.

When the professor ordered Suzuki to remove his shirt, however, Takanori _really_ wanted to know him.

“Your pants and undergarments as well, please.” The moment of horrified shock on Suzuki’s face almost had Takanori and Yuu bursting at the seams with laughter—but the two kept their composures, understanding that it was probably the man’s first time as a model. Hell—Suzuki’s innocence was adorable.

But really—did he not know that he would be modeling nude for a _life drawing_ class?

“We’ll begin with thirty-second gesture drawing warm-ups,” instructed the professor, switching Takanori back into artist-focus mode; he had to be serious, for this was a genuine part of his learning experience as an artist and a student.

Suzuki had chosen his first pose and the students retrieved their mediums, ready for the go-ahead. Once it was given and the students began, Takanori quickly realized that thirty seconds was not nearly enough time to capture the beautiful form in front of him. By the fifteen-second mark, the little blond had barely made any marks on his page for his concentration was rattled by the sudden change in Suzuki’s demeanor, all traces of insecurity and unease having disappeared. He was taking this opportunity seriously as he kept a straight face and steady body, posing as if it were the most natural thing in the world. By the second pose, Takanori had started late as he had become fixated on watching the tanned, toned body shift from one stance to another, each and every muscle playing a part and rippling underneath the skin as the man moved. It was mesmerizing; the human body greatly fascinated Takanori from an artist’s view, and to have the pleasure to view such a flawless specimen in front of him was to be cherished.

When Takanori finally managed to make more than a few marks, capturing Suzuki’s form in mere gesture lines as instructed, they were uneasy and inaccurate; he had trouble keeping the proportions correct, furrowing his thinly-plucked eyebrows together in frustration as he scrutinized his page. Dammit—such a beautiful model which he may or may not have the pleasure of drawing again, yet he failed to capture it.

“One more pose, Suzuki,” the professor hummed as he glanced at his timer. “Then we’ll move on to sustained drawings.”

_Sustained drawings!_ Those two words had Takanori’s eyes lighting up like a child on his birthday. Sustained drawings could last anywhere from twenty-five minutes to hours—just enough for the young artist to properly capture the astonishing detail of Suzuki’s form which was impossible to do in a quick gesture drawing. Takanori understood the importance of quick gesture drawings, of course—but with a model like Suzuki at hand, a detailed, sustained drawing was the preferred method of capture.

The model shifted into his next quick pose while the students focused eagerly on tracking the gesture and the movement through loose marks and lines; however, Takanori was still unable to perform as well as he normally did during these quick gesture drawings. The short man let out a huff of frustration as his usually-light lines became rougher and jagged in an attempt to get something down, but even in that he came up short in quality. Rough and jagged lines did not suit Suzuki, for he was a kind man, even if his exterior may look intimidating.

At last, the saviour that was the professor’s timer had gone off. “For your next pose, Suzuki, please choose something comfortable as it will be held for thirty minutes.” _Thirty minutes,_ hummed Takanori in satisfaction, a soft smirk taking over his lips. Yuu noticed this and send a cheeky eyebrow lift his friend’s way. _Perfect._

It appeared that Suzuki had gained much more confidence over the course of the few minutes he’d already spent posing and the students drawing, his demeanor serious and unaffected by exposing his nude body to so many unfamiliar eyes as he kept a professional aura which Takanori couldn’t help but internally applaud as it was difficult for most models to feel at ease so soon. He adored Suzuki’s uncertainty when the model had arrived, but Takanori loved a man with a little duality to him, for the little blond was a wildcard—certainly not easy to tame.

Soon enough, Suzuki had chosen his pose to be held for thirty minutes. As it was a simple one, not harsh on his body, his muscular system was not working as hard to make itself prominent as it was not being used—but even then, the fibers of the man’s defined muscles shone through his tanned skin, with creases and dents and bulges forming in all the right places.

While Takanori certainly observed Suzuki with an artist’s eye, the short blond certainly appreciated the model’s appearance with a more… _human_ type of appreciation, shall he say—especially after taking the time to rest and clearly observe uninterrupted.

Now having more time at his disposal, Takanori took great care in the beginning stages of his sketches, unlike he had during the rushed gesture drawings; he made sure to get the proportions and movement of the pose correct before moving onto the stage he had been looking forward to most ever since Suzuki stepped into the studio: details. The slight twist of his obliques, the tensing in which his thighs and calves would do should the model need to be off-balance; the bulging of his biceps which Takanori was almost positive Suzuki was doing for show, but the artist certainly wasn’t complaining. It was then, when Takanori was adding form via shading to the model’s deltoid and collarbones, did the two meet eyes for the first time that evening—Suzuki’s breath hitched, and he averted his gaze, while Takanori scoffed under his breath in amusement. _He’s cute,_ mused the little blond. _Shy._

The minutes seemed to pass by disappointingly quickly as Takanori continued to mark down, shade, and highlight the ever-intriguing aspects of the model’s fit body. Dutifully taking a glance at the clock, the hands ticked by as the artist took note that already fifteen of their thirty minutes had passed. Next came a glance at this work, taking in what he’d drawn thus far; Suzuki’s pose was captured in full, with few mistakes in posture, proportion and movement, unlike the gesture drawings. On top of that, the progress in detailing was without a doubt impressive—Takanori smirked to himself upon looking at the model again. It wasn’t often the little blond felt the need to be proud of his work, but in this instance, he did.

Just moments before the professor’s alarm sounded, Takanori squinted at the last of his detailing. He was pleased with what he’d been able to produce in thirty minutes—however, the artist knew he could spend hours upon hours on taking in the godly sight that was Suzuki’s form and capturing it in two-dimensional artwork—and at that thought, Takanori hummed thoughtfully to himself.

“What are you thinking?” Yuu inquired, giving his short friend a nudge. Takanori, again, had smirked; a plan began to formulate in his mind.

“I want him,” Takanori responded simply. Yuu raised an eyebrow in confusion. “I want him to model for me. I want to make a series using him.” A figure drawing series for an upcoming exhibition the students had to participate in as part of their credit. Suzuki would be his model, and Takanori would be able to draw him until his heart was content—which, as he thought about it now, may be _never._ If the little blond got his manicured claws around the beauty that was Suzuki, he didn’t anticipate letting him go.

It was settled, then. Takanori would seek out Suzuki later on in the day when he was sure the man would be in the gym—he went the same time almost daily, after all—and propose his request, which Suzuki surely couldn’t deny. Takanori would pay handsomely to ensure he got what he wanted, provided his charm alone wasn’t enough.

“Poor Suzuki. There’s no way he’s getting out of this, is he?” Yuu chuckled, casting a sympathetic side glance at the model who had resumed a normal posture as he awaited further instructions from the professor.

“Absolutely not,” Takanori affirmed with—yet again—a smirk. There was nothing Takanori wanted that he didn’t get.

~

For the rest of the class, the students continued with various exercises which made great priority of Suzuki as their model. Admittedly, Takanori was sad to see it end—but to think of what more was to come that same day allowed his despair to soften. Exiting the class, Yuu gave him a nudge and a wink of good luck before Takanori set out on his endeavor. He wouldn’t follow or stalk Suzuki, of course—he would simply wait around in his apartment until the usual time Suzuki usually spent in the gym, meet him there, and give his proposal.

Every moment up until that time was spent in anticipation and suspense. Sitting on the train, walking to the complex, finally making it into his small apartment and settling himself in—Takanori’s nerves were alight through it all—in the best way possible, of course. Excitement coursed through the little blond’s veins as the seconds, minutes, and hours ticked by all too slowly. Nothing could make time go quicker—no amount of assignments, nor cleaning, nor cooking, nor The Real Housewives marathoning. When at last the clock struck 7 PM, Takanori wasted no time in making his way to the gym after spending a good amount of time fixing his appearance—a little bit of hairspray there, a little bit of curl there, a touch of makeup here. He could not allow his overflowing anticipation show, however; he had to be as cool and as collected as Suzuki had always seen him to be during their encounters. A seductress.

Just as predicted, alone in the gym was the bird’s nest-topped head of Suzuki, supported by that rock-solid build of a godly body. He was clad in a black tank top and shorts, leaving Takanori with plenty of distracting eye candy—but he had to focus on the primary task at hand.

Closing his eyes for a brief moment, Takanori took in a breath before gripping the handle of the glass door and entering. Suzuki halted in his pull-up and turned his head at the noise of a newcomer, his eyes widening once they caught sight of who said newcomer was.

“Matsumoto?”

That low voice sent a shiver down the little blond’s spine. It wasn’t often they spoke, but every time they did, Suzuki’s voice sounded just as invigorating as the very first time Takanori had heard it. “Ah, I was beginning to think you didn’t remember me.” Suzuki raised an eyebrow at that. “I understand that all of the attention was on you today, but really—only a single glance my way?”

Suzuki stammered in an attempt to reply, but Takanori merely waved it off with a low chuckle. “And please, call me Takanori. No need for formalities.” It wasn’t a surprise Suzuki had used Takanori’s surname to greet him, for the two were really no more than acquaintances, but Takanori wanted to change that.

“Okay, Takanori…” Suzuki tested out the name on his tongue, sending another round of shivers down the little blond’s spine. “Call me Akira, then.”

_Progress._ Takanori tilted his head inquisitively as he spoke again. “Akira, was today your first time modeling?”

Shifting self-consciously under the shorter man’s intimidating gaze, Akira nodded with his eyes downcast; he appeared nervous. “Yeah, it was.”

“There’s no need to be so nervous. Your performance as a first-time model was very impressive, I must say—I could see how easily you fell into the role. Much quicker than most models.”

Akira raised his brows at the unforeseen compliment, a slight blush discolouring his cheeks as he rubbed the back of his neck in distraction. “Um, thank you. That means a lot.”

“Which reminds me to ask,” Takanori pushed, wasting no time in getting down to business now that he had Akira in his sights and nearly in his grasp. “You don’t plan on today being your one and only time as a model, do you?

“No, not really. But I don’t have any set plans. I’ll take the opportunities as they come.”

_And…_ “How would you like another opportunity, then?” _Hooked._

Raising an eyebrow in intrigue, Akira crossed his arms. “Go on…”

A silent breath of relief left Takanori’s rouge lips. Just a little bit more persuasion before the little blond had Akira in his manicured grasp at last. “I need to do a figure drawing series for an upcoming exhibition. After drawing you today, I’ve decided I want you to be my model.”

Without thinking for more than two seconds, Akira had his answer. “I’ll do it.”

While Takanori always enjoyed a little bit of a chase, he wouldn’t complain when his prey fell right into his mouth. “Fantastic. We’ll start tomorrow. Would you be comfortable doing it at my place, or would you prefer the school?”

“Your place is fine. Less hassle, after all.”

“Come over any time after I get home around 4. And don’t worry,” Takanori was quick to reassure the question that would no doubt come up sooner or later. “I’ll pay you for your time.”

Akira gave a nod in return. “See you then.”

Takanori departed from the gym soon after.

~

Was Takanori’s apartment _always_ this much of a mess? The little blond could’ve sworn he prided himself in cleanliness and organization, refusing to live in a place that was highly orderly—and to tell the truth, the diva’s apartment was in perfect condition, yet he couldn’t help but continue overthinking the placement and cleanliness of every little object. Even his chihuahua, Koron, had begun to tilt his head in confusion at his owner’s disorderly mindset and rushing about the apartment.

Everything had to look perfect for Akira’s arrival, dammit. How were they supposed to do hours of figure drawing if the place was a wreck? They couldn’t. Takanori would not rest until the premises didn’t harbour a single speck of dust and one book out of place.

Of course, everything already looked spotless and orderly; Akira probably didn’t even care, but Takanori wanted to make a clear effort anyway.

Then came the questions, _what if Akira was hungry?_ Thirsty? Should Takanoi make coffee? Should—

Koron’s yappy barking interrupted the little blond’s hectic train of thought, roused by the sudden knocking on the apartment’s door. Akira had arrived _already?_ Takanori hadn’t even set up his workspace, or his materials!

_It’s fine. It’s just Akira._ Just Akira with the most godlike body Takanori had ever laid eyes upon.

Calling upon a burst of courage, Takanori took in a deep breath before moving to the front door, Koron trotting at his ankles while barking constantly. The artist shooed the little creature to the side with his foot before opening the door to reveal, as expected, Akira. The taller blond smiled warmly, to which Takanori met in earnest. Maybe there was no need to be so anxious, after all.

“Hey, come on in. Hope you don’t mind tiny demons,” Takanori smirked, still holding Koron back with his foot.

“What, you mean you?” Akira retorted, knowing full well the artist was referring to the small chihuahua underfoot, but he couldn’t help but crack a smart joke anyways. Takanori’s jaw went slightly slack as he bit his lip in amusement, rolling his eyes. It was clear that Takanori had a consistently smart mouth, but it appeared Akira was a force to be reckoned with as well. “I’m kidding. I have two cockatiels at home, a little dog is no challenge.”

Stepping aside, Takanori allowed the model entry into his home, shutting the door behind him before gazing with affection at the sight of Akira crouching down to become acquainted with Koron. He chuckled to himself at the thought of Akira with birds; with that hair of his, they might as well be triplets.

“I still need to set up my workspace. It won’t take long. Do you want anything while you wait? Coffee, snacks?” The artist offered, hoping to provide his model with an accommodating experience. Akira shook his head before standing up.

“That’s alright, take your time. I don’t need anything. Where do you want me in the meantime?”

“Go ahead and make yourself comfortable on the couch, if you’d like. We can start drawing there.”

“Sounds good,” Akira agreed. The model glanced around Takanori’s apartment curiously, to which Takanori felt himself growing anxious at—but when Akira praised it in the next moment, the artist breathed a sigh of relief. “The way you’ve decorated your apartment is interesting. It suits you.”

Takanori took pride in decorating his apartment with bizarre knick-knacks and plenty of curious paintings while still keeping a sort of minimalist vibe to the whole place; the colours were plain, often dark. But when there was colour, it often resounded in an unsettling way just as the paintings and décor did—but it all worked, and the little artist enjoyed his living space.

“It suits me? How can you be so sure?” Takanori threw a glance over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow, standing at the doorway of his bedroom as that was where his supplies were stored. “We barely know each other.”

“I’d like to change that.” Akira returned the raised eyebrow, crossing his arms in a way that just _begged_ for the attention of the artist’s eyes.

Breath hitching at both that and the model’s smooth response, Takanori cast the taller man a smirk. “Prove to me that you’re as good a model as I think you are for this series of mine, and we’ll see.”

“Deal.”

Takanori already knew Akira was the model he wanted, but damn if he didn’t want to rile the man up; it was far too entertaining, and the chase was always invigorating.

After their banter, the artist fetched all that he needed to draw and capture Akira’s form in full, with as much time as he pleased. Easel set up, Takanori took a seat on his stool with his graphite in hand before adjusting his angle in a way that ensured he would be able to see the entirety of his model. At that point, the little blond had converted into artist-mode once more, his scrutinizing gaze nearly burning holes through Akira’s skin. The model shifted slightly, gaze averted.

“Please undress and then pose however you’d like. I want to start with a couple gesture drawings as a warm up,” Takanori instructed. As much as he wanted to get down to business with sustained drawings, the artist knew his results would not come out as anticipated if he didn’t warm up. “Oh, don’t be so shy,” he then teased after sensing an immense aura of uncertainty radiating from Akira. “It’s not like this is the first time I’ve seen you naked.”

At that, Akira averted his gaze once more, his cheeks flushed red; Takanori wondered if his cockatiels had the same cheeks. “I… um, sorry. It felt easier in front of an entire group of people, for some reason…”

Raising an eyebrow in question this time, Takanori’s face softened. “I don’t bite. If you like, you can keep your underwear on. I don’t mind.” _Much._

To the artist’s surprise, Akira shook his head. “No, I said I would be your model.” With that, the man sat up on the couch and stretched his torso, gripping the bottom hem of his tank top before lifting it up and over his head. Takanori’s eyes shamelessly took in the sight of those sculpted abs and pecs, but quickly averted his eyes in case Akira was still feeling uncertain; he would only look back when he was given permission. The artist respected his model. “I’m not abandoning you now. I can tell how important your work is to you.”

When Akira had flung his shirt to the side with a glance at Takanori, the model gave a soft smile in gratitude. The two stayed silent as the man undressed, creating a small pile of his clothing before positioning himself in a sitting position on the couch, quickly engaging in his first chosen pose.

“Ready?” Takanori asked, setting the timer on his phone. When Akira gave the go-ahead in the form of a nod, the artist tapped the screen of his device to start the timer after preparing his stick of graphite in the other hand. Two minutes and thirty seconds of gesture drawing commenced, Takanori’s mind went to the realm of focus and craft, beginning with loose lines on his page to mark down the basic form of Akira’s while keeping the rules of proportion as a priority. The little blond’s gesture sketch was notably better than the ones he’d done in class with Akira as a model—presumably because the pressure of time was not present, nor the uncertainty of the opportunities to come next. The artist had all evening to draw, the promise of lengthy sustained drawings in his future; in turn, the adrenaline of quickly-timed gesture drawings was not debilitating.

Before either one knew it, Takanori’s timer had gone off and Akira shifted to his next pose. The little artist captured the pose in more gesture lines and loose marks, proportions once again accurate under the influence of relieved pressure. However, he had insisted on only a couple more as the lengthier drawings were what he’d wanted to do most of all, and would be the ones in use for his exhibition series—and so, in the next five minutes Takanori had wrapped up the gesture drawing unit, leaning back in his seat to admire the handiwork of both himself and the dutifulness of his model.

“Good work,” Takanori noted, to which Akira smiled at while rubbing his shoulder in an act of bashfulness. “Now, onto what I’ve been looking forward to the most: sustained drawings. In detail. Oh, so much _detail…”_

Akira cut the little blond off with a laugh. “Okay, don’t drool all over your work.”

Sending a smirk in return, Takanori shrugged. “I’m not concerned. After all, you’re my model now, aren’t you? I have plenty of chances to make it up.”

“Is that your way of telling me this is going to be reoccurring thing?”

“It might be.”

~

After experiencing the exhilaration that was drawing Akira’s body in all of its detail, now halfway through his second sustained drawing, Takanori was sure to make their evening a reoccurring one. There was no high like the one he was experiencing; no drug nor experience could simulate the excitement of so skillfully capturing the beauty and godlike quality that was Akira’s form in traditional media, occasionally making pleasant conversation with the model when his focus broke or he figured the man was growing bored. On occasion, Koron had hopped up onto the couch to keep him company. Takanori’s hardened demeanor softened at the sight of someone other than himself getting along with his chihuahua so well—the little creature growled at Yuu more often than not, but had taken quite the liking to Akira, it seemed. Of course, Takanori included him in the drawing as well.

“How are you doing?” the artist made sure to ask, opting to keep his model’s experience an enjoyable one.

“No complaints here,” Akira responded, giving Koron a pat on the head as the little dog had settled on his lap. The chihuahua licked his hand in gratitude. “How are your drawings coming along? Are you pleased with them?”

Leaning back to take in his creation thus far, Takanori crossed his arms and smirked in satisfaction. “Very pleased. I’ve drawn from many models before, but I can’t recall any of them allowing me to produce something so… raw, yet beautiful.” Akira had a sense of pure gorgeousness to his form, unaltered in any way (aside from his awfully bleached hair—Takanori would surely find a way to get it taken care of professionally), which filtered into the artist’s work flawlessly. With such prominent forms underneath his skin, Akira was the perfect model for Takanori to practice and understand anatomy while also producing something beautiful—something he took great pride in doing. Aesthetic was important for him in everything he did.

A smile graced over Akira’s face, not realizing he had the power to aid in the creation of something so “raw, yet beautiful.” The description peaked his curiosity and interest, and so while he remained cautious, he couldn’t help but ask, “I get that artists are protective over their work, but… will I be allowed to see it?”

Takanori pondered for a moment at this. “If plenty of people are going to see these pieces during the exhibition, I can’t see why I can’t get my model’s approval to see if he’s happy with the way I portrayed him.” The artist took one last glance at Akira, finishing up his second sustained drawing he’d worked on throughout their conversation. “Come on, then. Take a look.”

A surge of both anticipation and anxiety ran through Takanori’s veins as Akira stood up from the couch, slipping on his underwear in an attempt to be decent—which had Takanori averting his gaze momentarily—before making his way over to the easel, standing beside the artist with his arms crossed. Takanori sat back in his seat, allowing Akira a closer look; finally, the little blond let out his hidden breath upon catching sight of the model’s eyes growing wide, his jaw dropping ever so slightly. He wasn’t sure what to assume of Akira’s reaction, not even when he spoke in the next second.

“Is that… really what I look like?” The artist continued to avoid Akira’s gaze, his body going ablaze with the fear _of does he not like it? Does it look bad, unnatural, not beautiful? Does it—_ “Am I really that hot?”

After hearing the words coated with astonishment filter out of the model’s mouth, Takanori’s neatly-trimmed brows uplifted in surprise; his previous negative questions and assumptions about his work had diminished, Akira’s pleasant reaction quickly overtaking every sense of self-doubt the little blond had once kept. With a glance at his work, then Akira, then his work, and back at Akira, Takanori crossed his arms in a sense of triumphant accomplishment, a smirk taking hold of his reddened lips once more.

“Yeah, I guess you are. I take it you approve, then.”

Akira let out a splutter of surprise at the artist’s laid-back response, so effortlessly brushing off the compliment of his skill as delivered by the model—but Akira could sense the simmering of a blush hidden on the little blond’s face, something only inviting the taller man to tease further—not to mention Takanori’s shameless admittance to calling Akira attractive.

“’Approve’ isn’t a strong enough word. With my body and your artistic talent, you’re going to _own_ that exhibition!” Akira cheered, bending at the waist with his hands on his knees to get on Takanori’s eye-level in order to take a closer look at the drawings completed thus far. He could see from the corner of his eye Takanori’s blush, which he attempted to cover up with a shake of his wavy, shoulder-length locks. “I’m serious. These are amazing.”

With a shy roll of his eyes, Takanori set down his stick of willow before spinning around to meet Akira’s cheery eyes head-on. The intensity of the little blond’s gaze sent a chill down the model’s spine, causing him to stand back up straight and avert his own gaze with a cough.

“Then how about you get back on that couch, look pretty and let me produce more?”

“Deal.”

~

Neither man was sure how many hours had passed by the time they decided to part that evening, both too engrossed in each task they were assigned to do—but at last, when Takanori had made a satisfying amount of drawings and Akira was standing at the front door of Takanori’s apartment fully-clothed, Takanori slipped a few bills out of his pocket to hand to Akira—which the model refused, putting both hands up in refusal. The little blond tilted his head in confusion, as they had both agreed on payment before setting up their evening.

“Don’t worry about it. Use it to buy some pizza tomorrow night while I’m over again and we’ll call it even.”

“Is that your way of telling me this is going to be a reoccurring thing?” Takanori repeated Akira’s line from earlier, crossing his arms inquisitively while cocking his hip out to one side.

“It might be.”


End file.
